Like self-propelled pool balls bouncing off bumpers and borders come the idiots who wear their words like awards of truth, pinned to labile tongues for loyalty, courage, faith— so many dawdling, flightless birds. They will never see the other side of their extinction, their pointlessness.

The thick-skulls are born to believe anything that sounds truly absurd, they lack the skill to recognize the image of themselves fighting against themselves like some dumb fish in a mirror-bowl, unblinking with its mouth always open. Their path is one—closed circles.

These pretty dolts, with their charming allure, have to take turns to keep up the charade around the world. After so long, you’d think they’d tire of the long engagement, which carries on and on in empty blurbs and bubbles, squawking about nonsense no ruler can measure: “It cannot be unmeasured!”

What must the echo sound like to them against the silvery lens that bends nothing into a ridiculous, dumb image— all those steel coined gems, valueless encircling disks with no substance within? The ledge they dance against, unlistening, will not hesitate to let them all fall off.

Nature requires no faith to act as it does. Only mindless things, low-born things throw themselves against the ground and call gravity, dirt, or darkness a demon for being the force that pulls them down. They cannot dance like their delusions do. Their fallacies are all one—a mobius strip— a shallow face that sees only itself.

The rest of us look for a way to fly even if our wings are technê, imaginary— our rituals serve life by observing it, imitating it, taking forms that can be weighed—recreating them. We are the creatures they call grotesque, the namers, designers, explorers, inquirers— we are the creatures who survive best.